


invisible string

by ladyfairhair



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Detective Work, F/M, Feminism, Mysterious, a lil bit of angst, all of the cuteness, five years after the events of the movie, holmesian deduction, john and sherlock obvs being morons, these two are made for each other but LIFE gets in the way, title from folklore because WHY NOT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfairhair/pseuds/ladyfairhair
Summary: *Warning! I've totally abandoned this fic, so beware!*You're not rid of me yet, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether, she'd said. But she'd been wrong. Enola Holmes wouldn't see Tewksbury of Basilwether for five years, and when they did meet again, it was under the most unlikely of circumstances.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 25
Kudos: 238





	invisible string

Enola closed her eyes. The world around her seemed to tilt. The only thing tethering her to the cobblestone streets was Tewksbury’s gentle kiss on her hand. The moment seemed to stretch from seconds to hours, and then, just like that, it was over.

 _You're not rid of me yet, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether_ , she'd said. But she'd been wrong. Enola Holmes wouldn't see Tewksbury of Basilwether for five years, and when they did meet again, it was under the most unlikely of circumstances.

~

"Sherlock Holmes! What a thrill to see you again!”

Standing at her brother’s side, Enola watched Sherlock give a twin bows to the well-frocked couple standing before them in the ballroom. 

“Mrs. Pemberton. Mr. Pemberton," Sherlock said.

“And Eugenia! A pleasure,” Mrs. Pemberton said, turning to her. Mrs. Pemberton’s face, Enola thought, was more powdered than any doughnut she’d ever seen.

Enola managed a polite smile. “The pleasure's all mine, Mrs. Pemberton. But my name is Enola.”

The woman frowned. “Is it?”

Enola sighed internally. It was hard enough making a name for herself as a female detective without being the sister of the most famous detective in the country. Even after five years of low-profile detective work, she paled in comparison to her brother. She needed a big case, and fast.

Sherlock, mercifully, cut in. “How long has your son been away?” 

Mrs. Pemberton's expression went from confusion to joy.

“Sherlock, you naughty thing! How did you know?”

“Your hairpin, ma’am.”

“My hairpin? Whatever does my hairpin have to do with it?”

Enola cleared her throat, already prepared when Sherlock nudged her with his elbow.

“He gave it to you last Christmas,” she said. “Didn’t he?”

Mrs. Pemberton’s eyes jumped to Enola, clearly perplexed at this abrupt addition to her conversation. “Why—yes.”

“But you haven’t worn it since," Enola proclaimed, confident in her deduction. "You think it’s unflattering.”

Mrs. Pemberton’s mouth fell open.

“It's clear in the way you’ve hidden it under a strand of hair. But you’re sentimental about it. You’re wearing it because you miss him. Is he in Italy, by chance?”

Enola could practically feel the pride radiating from Sherlock, but before either of them could say anything more, there was a hand on her shoulder. 

“Mr. Holmes! Miss Holmes! I thought I’d lost you." 

John—Sherlock’s assistant—stood between the pair of siblings, a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton, I do hope the Holmes’ weren’t monopolizing you. You must have so many other guests to converse with. Allow me to escort these two to the refreshment table…”

With a soldier’s strong grip, John steered them both away from the older couple. 

“Watson,” Sherlock said through his teeth, in a tone that could almost be construed as a whine. “That was a _teaching_ moment.”

“You two are a liability at parties,” John said, reaching to adjust Sherlock’s collar, which had once again popped up. “Next time I’m sure to find you turning someone’s stockings inside out or sweeping the fireplace for dust patterns…”

Sherlock was puzzled. “What could be accomplished by turning stockings inside out?”

“It was an example, Holmes.”

“An irrelevant example.”

John faced them, arms outstretched in a pleading gesture. “Just _behave_ , you two. Please. I’d like a single night of fun before the week’s work.”

“You’d like a night of entertaining the ladies,” Enola cut in.

Sherlock snorted. John turned red, straightening his dress shirt. 

“ _Speaking of_ , Enola,” he said, not unkindly. “Isn’t it time you found yourself a gent?”

“She doesn’t need one,” Sherlock rumbled, giving John a stern look. "Enola is perfectly capable of living on her own."

Enola's unladylike independence was a sore subject between the three of them.

“I’m aware of that, Holmes," John said. "She’s told me herself enough times. But if she’s going to be out in society like this, if you’re going to bring her to every party, at least find her someone of good breeding to rest her arm on…”

“Mr. Watson,” Enola said, “I turn twenty-one this year. I've been living on my own for five years now. And you’re not my brother. If you would please keep your nose out of my business, it would be greatly appreciated."

John looked defeated. Sherlock, in contrast, looked amused. 

“I suppose I’ll cut my losses tonight,” John said. “But we _shall_ speak of this again.”

“No, we won't,” Enola said, but John was already heading for the refreshment table where a gaggle of women in bright frocks stood giggling.

Sherlock watched him go. 

“That man,” Enola said, “is utterly _clueless_.”

She expected her brother to defend his assistant.

Instead, surprisingly grave, Sherlock said, “Indeed.”

“I’m going to find the Pembertons again,” Enola decided. “Mr. Pemberton’s cane has been stolen, and I think he ought to know by whom. I’ll find you.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, not looking at her. 

Enola turned away, weaving through the sea of people in silks and ribbons. Her brother was unhappy—of that much, she was certain. And John Watson had something to do with his unhappiness. But _how?_

_"Oof!"_

Completely lost in thought, Enola had run straight into a tall man. She tripped and almost fell, but the stranger caught her with a hand on the small of her back. 

“ _Enola_?”

Enola looked into a pair of familiar brown eyes.

“Tewksbury!"

With surprising ease, Tewksbury righted her, and then immediately dropped his hands. She made a show of brushing herself off.

"Hello," Enola said, unable to think of anything clever to say.

A smile played at the boy's lips. He’d always been taller than she was, but she didn’t remember the difference being _this_ pronounced. 

“It’s good to see you, Miss Holmes,” he said. 

His eyes seemed to be the only things about him that hadn’t changed. His hair was longer, thicker, swept away from his face and tucked behind his ear in a jaunty, stylish wave. He wore the well-trimmed suit of a full-grown man, all shiny black silk. Most disconcerting of all? The mustache above his upper lip. 

Oddly enough, it suited him.

She wanted to tell him to call her Enola, but had it been too long? Were they still friends, or only acquaintances? 

“And it’s good to see you, Viscount Tewksbury,” she said.

He smiled, wide enough to show his teeth. For a moment, he looked like the boy she'd rescued from certain death on a moving train. 

“I missed hearing you say my name,” he said, in his usual manner of unabashed honesty. 

Enola’s cheeks went pink. 

“Well, you’re lucky you haven’t gotten yourself in trouble enough to need my help.”

His face was bright. “That’s right! You’re a real detective now. I’ve seen you in the papers.”

Enola held back a scowl. It had only been one article, chiefly about Sherlock. She’d been briefly mentioned as: “the famous detective’s diminutive sister.”

But he'd read it. And he'd _noticed_ her.

Tewksbury, of course, noticed her change in mood. 

“What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Enola said, cursing the heavens for her terrible poker face. She’d have to get Sherlock to help her with it.

 _Come on, Enola_ , her mother’s voice said in her head. There’s no earthly reason to be nervous. He’s just a _boy_. 

“I’ve seen you in the papers, too,” she blurted. 

“You have?” 

Enola's mind supplied her with the memory of when he'd given her a flower in the marketplace. His mischievous smile now was just the same.

She crossed her arms. “Yes. You’ve been causing quite the stir in The House of Lords lately.”

Now Tewksbury looked slightly bashful. “I know. My mother and uncle aren’t entirely thrilled.”

“But I thought your family was progressive.”

“They are. They just don’t like it when I put myself in danger.” Tewksbury shook his head. “But it’s nothing compared to...before.”

 _Before_. When she and Tewksbury had discovered his own grandmother trying to assassinate him. Even looking at him now, Enola could see the clouds in his eyes. Clearly five years only went so far in healing a hurt so deep. 

They stood for a moment, staring at each other. And then, miraculously, Enola knew exactly what to say. 

“Remember when you showed up in a wooden chest to save me from boarding school?”

Tewksbury’s face broke into a smile.

“Remember when you cut my hair? Horribly, I might add.”

“You _fiend._ I did a fine job!” Enola defended. 

“My scalp is still recovering,” Tewksbury said, making a wounded face and rubbing his head dramatically. 

Enola swatted his arm. “Oh, _please—,_ ”

And then a girl in a bright frock whirled into the space between them and attached herself to Tewksbury's side. 

“Tewky, darling, I’ve just tasted the most marvelous punch, and—oh! Who is this?”

The girl was a vision of overwhelming colors. She had dark hair swept into an elegant bun, and the most beautiful face Enola had ever seen outside a painting.

Heart sinking uncomfortably, Enola stepped back.

“Erm—," Tewksbury began. “Victoria, this is Enola. Er, Enola Holmes. Miss Holmes, this is Victoria Spencer.”

Enola curtsied, and Victoria mirrored her. Then the girl's eyes went wide. 

“Holmes? Are you related to Sherlock Holmes?”

 _Perfect_ , Enola thought. “Yes.”

“By God, is he here? I should very much like to meet him. Tewky, please? Let’s go meet Sherlock Holmes.”

Tewksbury looked unsettled. Enola’s mind raced. Was he courting Victoria? Or was she only a friend? From the way the girl hung on his shoulder, her guess was the former. 

“He’s by the fireplace,” Enola said. “But you should hurry. He doesn’t like parties and likely won’t stay long.”

“Oh, thank you, Enola!” Victoria squealed. “Let’s go, Tewky.”

And just like that, Tewksbury was being led away and Enola was alone once again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to read any and all feedback you may have!


End file.
